Kings or Pawns (Steps of Power 1)
Page 33
“Goddess of beauty and justice, protect us in our hour of need. The darkness grows about us and we of weak body and mind beg the safety of—” Navon began to pray rapidly as he stumbled to his feet and ran for the doors.
Without so much as a whistle of wind, the dead body of the priest slammed into his back. The sudden surge of pain jolted Jikun back to a sense of self, and yet, he felt Navon’s head snap back as the male lurched forward. He slammed into the candles on his right, dousing the flames with his body, and fell backward onto the hard tile.
‘Navon!’ he gasped in horror, feeling the captain’s heart pounding, his head spinning. Pain surged through his torso with sickening familiarity. And despite the self-awareness, Jikun could not sever the agony searing his own frame.
Navon rolled onto his chest, coughing and gasping, a hand pressed under his breast against a sharp, warm pain in his ribs.
“—your bosom. Let us not fall to the evil that tests us now but with your help—” Navon gasped, cutting off his recommitted prayer as the beast grabbed the bottom half of the stone statue and heaved it up above its head, its muscular arms barely flexing beneath its weight.
Jikun felt his captain’s heart stop and his body freeze in horror.
‘RUN,’ he begged him inwardly, desperate to look away. But he could not. ‘RUN YOU FOOL.’
The beast released the stone and it sailed through the air. Navon frantically dove forward, feeling a gust of air as it smashed into the wall behind him. There was a sudden, excruciating pain through his arm as a remnant bounced off the wall and crushed his forearm as though it was made of soft clay.
Navon looked up, gasping through his pain, seeing the beast’s steady pace press forward.
The creature shook the remnants of dust from its wings as it walked, its great boots thudding against the smooth marble.
Jikun could feel his own teeth grit as Navon pulled himself up, his left arm hanging loosely at his side. In his frantic desperation to save his comrade, his sense of self was lost and the vision before him intensified.
The beast bared its teeth in a near sneer of victory, grabbing yet another twisted piece of metal and throwing it forward for the final, crippling blow.
“Veluhas eserine!” Navon shouted, raising his good hand into the air. The piece of metal slammed into his leg, ripping it out from under him and bringing him to one knee.
But a whirl of faint faces swirled up before him, unfazed by the injury of their summoner. They howled like the wind through a canyon, sweeping over the beast in screams of delight, growing louder and louder as they twisted about the massive frame of the creature.
The beast let out a terrified roar, the cry of its fear only subsiding beneath its rising anger. He fumbled for the nearest large chunk of stone in his blind confusion, hurling it venomously to where he believed Navon to be.
But Navon leapt to the side, twisting his hand in the air in some occultist symbol. Another roar of black smoke pillared from the ceiling, smashing down upon the creature with the force of collapsing stone itself.
Navon saw a shift within the pillaring darkness and the shape of the beast suddenly burst through on the right, darting across the floor and smashing through the doors of the temple as though they were made of the thinnest parchment.
Navon raised his hand at the doors for another moment, but only faint rays of moonlight returned to him.
“Gods save us,” he heard a priest nearby gasp in horrified shock.
The realization of what Navon had done struck Jikun like a blow to the chest and the intensity of his bond shattered like ice. He felt Navon’s heart rate slow and an overwhelming grasp of pain hit him. His leg…! His chest…! His arm…! His body failed beneath him and he sank toward the marbled floor. The clank of metal sounded from just out of sight and several guards of the Night’s Watch rushed into the room, barreling toward the captain as though he were the beast itself.
Suddenly the general was standing beside the mage once more, panting slightly from parted lips. He raised a shaking hand, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple with all the steadiness he could muster. The perfume faded. The pain vanished. But the images remained.
“Such projections can be quite trying on the witness,” the seer informed him, apathetically folding his hands against his abdomen. “But as you clearly saw for yourself, General, Captain Navon used necromancy in his defense. He has been imprisoned beneath the palace of His Majesty. He awaits execution for the violation of Sevrigel’s laws against the practice of dark magics.”
Jikun stepped back, eyes wide as he surveyed the shattered world around him, now pieces to a scene he had just lived. Even without the vision, the knowledge that his captain… his friend was…
Beneath his mask weakened by the vision, Jikun knew grief riveted his face as plain as the seer’s robe before him.
“It’s unfortunate that you had no knowledge of his dark ways prior to this public unveiling. Perhaps he could have been turned away from his wickedness,” the mage spoke gravely. “But, certainly, a better captain shall replace him. Sel’ari’s wisdom knows best.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Sellemar. Up. It’s been at least four hours,” Erallus spoke, nudging the male in the side.
Sellemar’s brow furrowed at the intrusion. ‘When did he start making the decisions?’
Even so, the guard’s urging was inarguable. On this mission, time was a valuable weapon that they could not waste—although this knowledge did nothing to soothe his aching muscles. Gods, had he really been that exhausted? He opened his eyes bleakly and pushed off the wall in order to rise to his feet. The tunnels behind them still glittered with gold and gems, but the place where they now stood was a long upward tunnel of grey stone—sturdy, unembellished, and unlit. “Sel’ari protect us from what is to come,” he prayed briefly. He opened his mouth and closed it, glancing around in confusion. “Where is Itirel?”
“Right here,” Itirel called down from above him. He dropped down from the ladder, landing lightly beside Sellemar. “At the top is a stone ‘door.’ The night is silent beyond it.” He picked up his lance and rested it over his shoulder, turning to face him intently.
Sellemar nodded once. “As I suspected. We should have few problems entering the palace this way.” He smiled inwardly, pleased that Itirel had taken the initiative to scout what he could before he had awoken.
His comrade placed a hand back on the ladder and pulled himself up. “I assume we are clear to move now?”
Sellemar nodded, feeling slight surprise at the Noc’olari’s words. It had been many centuries since he and the Noc’olari had last quested, and yet, Itirel still looked to him for leadership.
Erallus put a hand on the ladder next, but Sellemar pulled it firmly away. “I will be going first.” He secured his foot onto a rung of the silken rope and began his ascent quickly behind Itirel.
The air gradually became cleaner and crisper, the scent of damp soil and stone falling away as they neared the outside.
“Ah,” Sellemar grunted as he ran his hand into Itirel’s foot. He must have reached the top. “Can you open it?”
“Yes,” Itirel replied softly. A moment later, a circle of light lit the sky above them, falling down in soft beams to the cavern below. Itirel vanished into the world above.
Sellemar glanced away from the darkness and reached up, feeling Itirel’s hand clasp his and pull him through the opening as well.
Moonlight showered the stone around him with a soft and charming glow—though Noctem’s sinister gaze was greatly softened by the stone figures about him; he was surrounded by the statues of Eraydon, Tiras, Ephraim, Riphath, Mescheck, and Aura, their bodies creating a circle of stances locked in eternal battle, a protective shield around the three elves within.
He reached a hand down for Erallus as Itirel lifted the sheath of his sword from scraping across the stone. With the statues towering above and around them, he, Itirel, and Erallus were invisible to the world outside
.
However, as though looking through a gray haze, the courtyard around them was plainly visible. He could see Erallus’ eyebrows raised as he turned around slowly. Even Itirel appeared impressed with the level of magical concealment the True Bloods had invested in their eastern capital.
“We shall have to enter the palace,” Sellemar spoke after he concluded with certainty that the vicinity was vacant. Outside the statues, the circular courtyard was a maze of paths lined in flowers and poorly trimmed bushes. An overhang jutted over the first story, upheld by white and gold columns. Above it, the palace walls towered into the night sky, their narrowly arched windows dark. Only a single pair of phoenix-engraved doors at the southern end would allow entrance to the courtyard, and they lay closed and dark.
Sellemar replaced the stone circle over the hole behind them and tapped the statue of Eraydon on the back. “May I pass?”
Erallus opened his mouth to comment dumbly, but fell silent as the statue began to move, silently and smoothly as though made of flesh. It stepped aside. “Do the statues in Elvorium do this?” he whispered in stupefied awe, as though he had never seen magic at work.
Sellemar glanced once more at the statue. “Thank you.” It stepped back into place. Sellemar crouched low and hurried along a path toward the doors. He did not make an attempt to answer Erallus.
It would shock the soldier for Sellemar to share what information he was privy to in Elvorium.
At the doors, Sellemar crouched down, pressing his ear against the crack. He heard Erallus move close while Itirel stepped up beside him, his back against the wall.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear voices and laughter, but the interior of the doorway was as silent as the courtyard. Still, Sellemar drew his blade. He expected the halls to be empty—Saebellus would not run a night’s watch within an area he suspected to be fully secured from without. He pushed the door open briskly and stepped inside.
He was instantly slammed against the wall and he felt the tip of a blade press against his throat.
“Stay outside or I’ll slit his throat,” the male hissed to Erallus before the soldier could follow. As he closed the door loudly with his foot, Sellemar caught a final glimpse of Itirel darting instantly out of sight. “Where did you two come from?” his apprehender demanded.
Sellemar leaned back against the wall, his wrist aching from the pressure the male placed on his sword arm. He could make out the elf in the dimly lit hallway—blond hair, blue eyes, ears that curved gently to a point. Undoubtedly a Sel’ven, but that was not all. Sellemar’s eyes fell to the emblem on his chest. He was a captain.
“You are Captain Vale, I presume,” Sellemar spoke softly. He felt the blade bite into his flesh.
“I am asking the questions—”
“That wasn’t a question.”
He saw the eyes narrow in irritation. Good—the male was easily provoked.
“Who are you?” Vale demanded. “Is Ryekarayn sending assassins to do Sevrigel’s work now?”
Sellemar slid his free hand slightly up the wall.
“I can see you moving. Do it again, and I’ll just slit your throat and question your comrade.”
He was serious. Sellemar could see the cold assertion in his eyes.
“Sellemar. Acting mercenary. Here to rescue Ilsevel on behalf of the kingdom.” Gods, what was Erallus doing? He found himself unconcerned with Itirel’s movements: no doubt the male was already putting a plan into effect.
He watched Vale’s eyes look him over. “Drop your weapon.”
Sellemar obediently let his sword clatter to the floor at his feet.
Vale leaned his body closer, suddenly at ease with his captive’s disarmament. “Mm. You look rather familiar. Have I fucked you before?”
Sellemar blinked, shock throwing him off guard. If he had not already been pinned so thoroughly, he would have recoiled in disgust. “What?” he found himself stammering, flustered and appalled by the male’s words.
“Oh, as innocent and timid as the other little Sel’varian bitches, aren’t you?”
Sellemar refocused, wiping his face of emotion. He had to set the male back on edge. He was getting too comfortable in his dominance: and with it, his focus on Sellemar’s movement increased. “It does not surprise me that the best male Saebellus can find—” He flinched as the blade dug into his throat. Damn, it was too late. He had lost any chance of reclaiming his edge the moment Vale had taken it. Where in Ramul were Itirel and Erallus?!
There was a sudden shatter of glass from their left. A rock knocked against the floor and rolled to the side. It was enough. Vale’s head turned and Sellemar jerked his throat away from the blade, feeling it slice along the surface of his neck. The door flung open immediately and Vale reeled back from the instant swipe of Itirel’s lance.
Sellemar grabbed the captain’s wrist even as Vale made an attempt to reposition his control. He kneed him in the groin and kicked out as the male doubled. He bent his wrist back as he ducked under his arm and slammed Vale’s head into the wall.
As the captain sank down toward the floor, Sellemar picked the dagger easily from the elf’s twisted hand and shoved it into his side.
The door to the courtyard swung open again and Erallus stepped in, sword drawn. He glanced once at the bleeding captain and back up at Sellemar and Itirel. “They may have heard us. We have to move.”
Itirel bent down and picked up Sellemar’s sword, holding it in his free hand as he stood stoically over Sellemar and Vale.
Sellemar crouched down beside Saebellus’ captain and leaned forward. He put a hand over the male’s mouth. “Where is Ilsevel?” he demanded. He pushed the hilt of the dagger deeper. “Where?”
Vale cried out, muffled by the palm over his lips.
Sellemar pulled his hand slightly away. “Where?”
Vale let out a gasp of pain as he whispered a weak reply, “Third floor. Turn left. Fourth door… on left…”
Sellemar put his hand back over Vale’s mouth and pressed firmly once more on the dagger. “How many guards?” He could hear the male gasp and choke back another cry in a desperate attempt to appear stronger than he was. Sellemar withdrew his hand.
“None.”
“None??” Sellemar grabbed the male’s hair and jerked his head up, studying his face in confusion.
Vale’s eyes were closed tightly, but he could see the pressure lightening. His lips were turning grey. He was fading. “None…”
Sellemar dropped his head.
“I think he at least believes he is telling the truth,” Itirel spoke with a raised eyebrow. “Anyways, his lack of consciousness now is of no more use to us.”
“No guards?” Erallus repeated behind them.
Sellemar pushed off his knees quickly. “Come. The staircase is this way.” No guards? That could not be possible. They would never leave Ilsevel unguarded. “And whose idea was it to throw a stone? You want to alert the whole damn palace, Erallus? Gods, such a damn novice.”
“It worked, so let’s not point fingers,” Itirel defended the soldier solidly.
They ran as one up the wide, white marbled staircase and as they ascended, it became plain that the second floor was empty. They passed by it and slowed before the third, crouching and moving more cautiously, with Itirel at the rear.
The first glimpse of the hallway coming off the third level was better than he had expected. It was lit with small, golden orbs and a single crystal chandelier along the ceiling, far brighter than the first level passageway. ‘Hm… one guard…’ He peered down the rest of the brightly lit hallway. The other dark mahogany doors were closed as well and the elegantly carved, delicate tables spotted across the walls were empty. Unlike so many other elven palaces, there were no pillars or statues, no grand outpouring of wealth. Horiembrig had truly fallen into ruin, and long before Saebellus had taken hold of it.
“He’ll see us coming before we even get close,” Itirel’s whisper came, barely audible beside him.
“Not Adonis—he’s a Sel’ven,” Erallus whispered from his other side. “Kraesin, then, I believe. He was a mercenary before he joined up with Saebellus. Incredibly well-known sword wielder.”
Sellemar gripped his blade tighter in a rush of adrenaline. “You are sure the man is Kraesin?” The name, at least, he recognized.
Erallus slid closer, his eyes intensely scrutinizing the man before them. It was clear that he was mulling over his options and Sellemar waited impatiently for clarification. “Has to be if he is a human lieutenant,” he finally breathed.
Sellemar nodded understandingly, noting that the blade at the human’s side was no cheap forgery.
“Oh, and he’s an exceptional knife thrower as well.”
‘Fantastic.’ The situation was looking dimmer already. Sellemar glanced back at Itirel for guidance, but the male seemed as conflicted about their options as he was himself. Neither he nor Itirel were particularly skilled in long range weaponry, and a quick judgment of Erallus’ weapon choice told him the same was true of the guard.
“What is the plan?” Erallus demanded after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
Sellemar paused once more. “…Go break another window. Louder this time. Make some noise. Draw him near the stairs.”
Erallus raised a cautious brow. “What are you two going to do?” he demanded in reply.
“Kill him. Now let us take care of this and go.”
Erallus gave an obedient nod and moved silently back down the stairs.
Sellemar slid his sword into his sheath. Praise Sel’ari the man was a human—an elf probably would have heard the first crash. “Follow me,” he ordered Itirel. “And stay out of the fight.” He drew out his dagger and crept to the side of the staircase. While he gripped the dagger in his teeth, he slipped over the side of the railing, lowering himself until he was hanging by his hands along the edge.